


the heart is overcome

by supras



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Piano AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 17:56:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1194291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supras/pseuds/supras
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU in which Harry has lost his love of music, Niall needs a scholarship, and they're competing against each other in the Haversham, a competition for young pianists. Harry may or may not be infatuated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the heart is overcome

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this idea for a while, of Harry as a privileged pianist who only wants to do his father proud, and Niall as a poor kid from Mullingar who just wants to go to a good school and do what he loves. then this happened, oops. 
> 
> title from nizlopi's gorgeous [drop your guard](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KS2GEFeDf60).

“And the winner of the ninetieth annual Haversham Competition is.”

The announcer pauses to look from the judges, to the five competitors on the stage, to the audience, and Harry sucks in a breath and squeezes his eyes shut. He can feel Niall shudder beside him and he blindly reaches out, fingers seeking the other boy’s. Niall grips his hand tightly, his own fingers trembling.

This is it, the moment he’s worked for, dreamt of his entire life. He’s pictured it in his head a thousand times, how he’d feel when he heard his name from the announcer’s lips. He’s thought about it every day since he was told what the Haversham was.

He’d just never thought that when the moment finally came, he wouldn’t want to win.

\--

When the cat wanders into the music room, Harry is sitting with his head resting on the shelf staring intently at the keys before him, lid of the grand piano closed with crumpled sheets of manuscript paper strewn across it.

He’s been there for hours, hunched over his piano surrounded by half-finished melodies that aren’t quite _right_. It’s never been like this, never been this difficult to pull the music out of his head, and he doesn’t understand _why_. Memorising the pieces for classes and auditions have been a struggle as well, stiff fingers tangling and mind never remembering what note comes next. He hates it, misses when the piano was easy, an extension of himself and not a burden.

The cat twines herself around his ankles, stepping over the pedals to rise up on her hind legs and paw at his knee. She looks at him expectantly in the way she does, all wide eyes that Harry can never, ever say no to.

With a sigh he lifts her into his arms, cradles her in the crook of his elbow as he stands, pushing the bench back and out of the way as he does. The cat purrs happily when he scratches her chin and makes his way out of the room. He carries her with him through the foyer and out the front door to the letter box, hopping across the cold concrete with bare feet. His chilled fingers fumble as he tries to pull the little door of the letter box and retrieve the post there. He grabs the stack of envelopes without looking at them and hurries back into house.

Harry deposits the cat on the low bench next to the door so he can use both hands to inspect the post, digging his toes into the rug to warm them up again. There are a handful of bills, a postcard from a cousin on holiday in Bali, and at the bottom of the stack, a thick cream envelope addressed to him.

There isn’t a return address on it and he frowns as he finds his way into the kitchen for a letter opener. The paper tears easily beneath the blade he drops back into the drawer before shaking out a letter. He unfolds it, eyes skipping over the official letter head to read the message.

_Dear Mr. Harry E. Styles,_

_We are pleased to welcome you into the first round of 90 th annual Haversham Competition._

He stops reading and goes back to the beginning to read the first sentence over and over, words bouncing around his brain but not quite sinking in.

He’s gotten into the Haversham.

The _Haversham_.

\--

_“Harry, lad, what are you doing?”_

_Caught by surprise at his father’s voice, Harry nearly falls off the chair he’s standing on to peer at the awards on the shelf. Des reaches out to steady the child so he doesn’t tumble to the floor._

_“Just looking,” Harry says defensively, lower lip jutting out in a pout._

_“The Haversham?” Des asks and chuckles in amusement when Harry perks up at the name. “Again?”_

_“It’s my favourite. Tell me about it again?”_

_Des scoops the boy up and then settles on the bench of the piano with him on his lap._

_“The Haversham,” he begins indulgently because he’s told this story a hundred times by now, “is a biennial competition for young pianists entering university. It began in 1913 and there are two rounds, each with a different time limit and piece requirements. The winner receives automatic acceptance and full tuition to the university of his or her choice.”_

_“And you won and went to the Royal Academy,” Harry says._

_“I did, indeed. But in order to compete in the Haversham, one may not have competed in a professional piano competition, so it’s a career risk to enter.”_

_“But it’s the_ Haversham _. It’s the_ best _!”_

_Des runs a hand over Harry’s curls and shifts so the two are facing the piano’s keyboard.  Harry immediately lifts his tiny hands to the keys and begins the piece he’s currently working on with his instructor, Chopin’s scherzo number 2, opus 31._

_He may have won the Haversham, noted as the most prestigious scholarship competition in the world, but Des hopes Harry never competes in it. At seven, Harry is far more talented than he ever will be, attacking pieces even the most ambitious adult pianists don’t want to, small fingers making impossible reaches across the keys. He’d be more suited to the bigger international competitions that would provide more than enough prize money to cover his tuition to the best music school – even though he’d be granted a scholarship anyway. And Harry’s good enough to enter them at the minimum age requirement of sixteen, Des is certain. He’d be good enough now, if he was allowed to enter._

_But he understands Harry’s fascination with the silver trophy that sits in a place of honour on the shelf in the music room, the wish to follow in his father’s footsteps._

_So instead of arguing that no, the Haversham_ isn’t _the best, he reaches around his son to carefully adjust his finger position._

\--

The rest of the letter states the first round will be held in London in four weeks and lists the requirements. Up to twenty minutes of music including one virtuoso ètude, the first movement of a classical sonata, and a piece selected at the entrant’s discretion. Harry immediately bounds back into the music room and begins pulling sheet music from the extensive collection held on the bookshelves along one wall.

The requirements leave his selections open to a variety of possibilities, pieces he’s played before, ones he hasn’t but wants to attempt.  The choice won’t be an easy one – he has to find the balance between level of difficulty and accessibility. He knows the jury will be looking mostly at technical skill and expression in the first round, leaving the second final round to build on the skill and showcase interpretation with all of the contestants performing one of the same pieces.

His stomach is in knots as he selects the heavy volume of Liszt's 1838 grandes ètudes. He’d learnt them and their simplified counterparts, the transcendentals, several years before over a hot English summer he’d spent locked indoors with his piano. If they made it into the Haversham, most of the contestants will be able to play the transcendentals, but the grandes are exceedingly more difficult. So much so that only two pianists in a hundred years have been brave enough to record them in their entirety. Selecting one as his étude may give him a leg up over the other contestants.

\--

La Campanella isn’t the most difficult piece Harry’s every learnt. It’s quick and extensive, but it’s all scales and arpeggios and his large hands took to the piece easily the first time around. This time, it’s a struggle. He’d never memorized it properly, just the passages that gave him the most trouble when he played them over and over. If he’d expected it to come back easily, he’s sadly misguided.

He attempts the piece from memory first. He remembers the melodies of the main themes, can plink out each note after a couple tries to get the correct ones, and the left hand chords are always one inversion off. 

After an hour, he grudgingly turns to the sheet music and starts from the beginning.

\--

Harry is hunched over the piano again when his mother finds him hours later as she returns home from work. He hears her soft knock on the door, then the sound of the hinges opening slowly, but he doesn’t look up from staring at the sheet music in front of him.

She takes in the scene as she approaches the piano, glancing over the heavy volume on the music rest and the stressed set of her son’s shoulders. She can tell by the way his fingers are resting unmoving on the keys something is very, very wrong.

 “Harry, love?”

Harry looks up then, tries to force a smile and fails miserably, lips twisting into a grimace as he lets his hands fall to his sides.

“Hi, Mum.”

“What’s the matter?” Anne asks slowly.

“I got in. To the Haversham,” Harry responds with a wave of his hand towards the stacks of sheet music spread on the floor around him. In between takes of La Campanella, he’s been trying to find the sheets for the three other pieces to play.

“Oh, Haz, that’s wonderful!”

Anne beams and pulls her son into a hug, kissing the top of his head. He leans into her embrace, sighing when he turns his face into her shoulder.

“Have you told your father?”

“…Not yet.”

\--

_It’s raining the day his father leaves. That’s what Harry will always remember. Of course he’ll remember the sick feeling of abandonment in his stomach, but it’s the feel of icy water coursing down his skin, leaving goose pimples in its wake as he watches the car leave that will keep him up at night for the next year. There’s a numbness in his fingers he can’t shake in the weeks that follow when he refuses to touch his piano._

_When Harry finally learns how to function again, their relationship is strained as he throws himself back into his piano lessons. He’s sixteen and the Haversham is next year, he can’t afford to waste any more time._

_Des tells him he doesn’t think he should compete, that he should go after the Chopin, Rubinstein, and Tchaikovsky competitions instead._

_Harry stops speaking to him._

\--

By some miracle, Harry manages to remaster La Campanella over the next week. He spends hours sitting at the piano playing until his fingers are sore and his mother pulls him away to help make dinner or watch some television. From there, he moves into working on several sonatas he already knows, technically difficult ones he plays from muscle memory. He knows they’re perfect, but lack the expression he once played them with. His heart isn’t in them anymore, replaced by stress and anxiety at the thought of not winning.

\--

Harry doesn’t tell his father he’s been invited to compete until two weeks before the first round, and even then he can hardly do it himself.

His best mate, Louis, sits quietly beside him on his bed as Harry pulls up Des’ number in his phone with shaking hands.

“It’ll be fine,” Louis says soothingly and wraps an encouraging arm around Harry’s shoulders. He knows all too well what Harry feels right now.

Harry swallows hard and nods, pressing the ‘call’ button and holding the phone up to his ear. It rings four times before Des picks up with a slow, “Hello, Harry.”

“Dad. Hi,” Harry says. His throat is dry and his tongue feels like sandpaper so it comes out as a rasp.

“You alright, lad?”

“Yeah ,I’m fine.  I just…wanted to tell you that I made it into the Haversham.”

There’s a long moment of silence from the other end of the line and Harry holds his breath.

“I…Wow. Harry, I’m really proud of you,” Des says finally and Harry can hear how forced he sounds beneath the shallow note of pride. “Have you picked your pieces yet? I suppose you have, it’s in two weeks right?”

Harry lets his breath out through his nose, shoulders slumping in relief and Louis rests his cheek on the top of Harry’s head.

“Sort of.”

\--

When Harry arrives in London on Friday afternoon, the day before the first round of the competition, he hasn’t yet made his final decision on which songs he’ll be performing. La Campanella is a sure thing, he’s spent too much time practising for it not to be. But the other pieces are still up in the air until he runs through them several more times – and he finds out what the rest of the competitors are performing.

His fingers itch as he checks into the hotel in Westminster, near King’s College’s Strand campus where the first round is taking place. Though contestants are responsible for their own expenses, the directors of the competition have gotten them reduced rates in the same hotel so they’re all together and close by the rehearsal spaces. Harry just wants to drop his things off in his room and head over to practise.

The concierge gives him a smile as she hands over his room key and a map of the area, including directions to the university. He thanks her and heads upstairs, tosses his bag onto the bed, and leaves again.

Harry gets lost twice on the way to King’s and has to turn up the collar of his coat against the chilly November air, shoving his hands into his pockets to keep them from shaking. He’s one of the last to arrive, though still early by the schedule he’d been sent. The college only has a handful of grand pianos, including the Steinway Model D they’ll be auditioning on, so everyone has been given a scheduled time to practise on it and the other grands and uprights around campus. He makes his way to the Macadam building’s basement practise rooms where he has a ninety minute time slot in 2a beginning at four.

All six practise rooms open out to a common area full of overstuffed armchairs and various music paraphernalia. There’s a group of people milling about waiting on their time slots, some with earphones in listening to their pieces or looking over sheet music, others talking in hushed voices with other contestants and their teachers.

A boy with side swept brown hair looks up when Harry enters and takes a place in one of the empty chairs., eyes immediately narrowing.

“Harry Styles?” he says in astonishment. “You’re taking the piss.”

Harry frowns, pausing in taking off his scarf.

“I’m sorry?”

“ _You’re_ competing in the _Haversham_?” the boy asks, and by now everyone else has turned to look at Harry.

“Yes?”

“Well we might as well not even try,” a tiny blond girl snorts, glancing at him over the top of her sheet music. “How was Carnegie Hall last summer?”

Harry feels the heat in his face and doesn’t respond. Performing at Carnegie Hall wasn’t against the rules as it hadn’t been a competition, but rather an invitation. The same went for the week he’d spent as a guest pianist with the Los Angeles Philharmonic. And the one-night-only performance in Berlin.

“Did Daddy Styles take you and show you the ropes?” 

As another boy sneers, the door to 2a swings open then and a girl comes out, her lips pressed into a firm line of frustration. She disappears outside without so much as a word or glance to the other pianists, and the air in the room stills considerably as reality sets in for some. This is a competition, and things may not go well.

Harry slips into the vacated room whilst the others are preoccupied with sudden anxiety. The room itself is small, hardly larger than a closet with a black Kawai K-5 against the wall opposite the door. He flips on the light sitting on top of the case and sets the timer on his phone.

\--

 _Los Angeles is different than Harry had expected, but also exactly what he expected. There really_ are _palm trees everywhere. There really is a mad amount of traffic. But the Pacific ocean is nearly as cold as the Celtic sea and there are more brunettes than blondes._

_His first day in the city he spends in rehearsals with the Los Angeles Philharmonic. He can’t quite wrap his head around the fact that he’s seventeen years old and playing with one of the best orchestras in the world, and the next week he’ll be making his debut at Carnegie Hall. Even though the orchestra is supposed to follow the lead of the soloist, Harry plays off of the experience of the immensely talented musicians he’s honoured to be surrounded by._

_A week later when the performance has concluded and the Hollywood Bowl is emptying, Gustavo Dudamel pulls him aside to tell him it’s been a privilege to work with him and wish him luck._

_Harry tries desperately not to cry._

_He doesn’t succeed, but at least he makes it to his hotel room first._

\--

When his first session concludes at half six, Harry emerges from the practise room to find the common area empty of people, much to his relief. He has a session with the Steinway in an hour, so he uses his phone to find a chip shop nearby for a quick snack.

Harry eats as he walks back to the campus, meandering through the blocks of buildings until he finds the South West Block. Room 21 is where he’ll be competing tomorrow, and the doors are closed when he arrives ten minutes early, the person ahead of him still running through their repertoire. Harry sits on the bench outside the door to listen, almost immediately recognising the end of the lo stesso tempo section of Liszt’s Mazeppo.

Having played it himself with the LAPO, he recognises that it’s being played flawlessly. Every note is correct, the tempo and dynamics on point.

It’s what’s underneath that makes Harry’s breath catch in his throat.

Whoever is playing slides into the next section effortlessly and Harry hears the pain. The pain and fatigue of Mazeppa and his horse, the speed and distance taking their toll. Each note is played precisely with such purpose in a way he himself hasn’t been able to do in nearly two years. The emotion and vibration in his bones sends a shiver down his spine and suddenly _needs_ to see the person playing. 

Harry eases the door open as quietly as he possibly can as to not to cause a disturbance. The lights in the lecture hall are all off save for those above the piano in the front of the room and it takes Harry’s eyes a moment to adjust and make out the figure at the piano.

It’s a boy with a shock of peroxide blonde hair peeking out from the sides of a backwards snapback, multi-colour vest clinging to the sweat at the small of his back, shoulder muscles flexing as his hands move up the keys.

Harry watches in wonder as the boy’s body rocks as he plays though the allegro deciso, head bowed and eyes closed.

 _Closed_ , during the most technically difficult passage of the entire work.

When the boy plays the final notes and leans back, wrists resting on the keys, Harry’s mouth is hanging open and his hands come together to applaud before he can stop himself.

The boy turns sharply at the sound, blue eyes wide before they narrow as they try to peer past the spotlights and into the back of the room.

Swallowing hard, Harry takes the steps down two at a time until he emerges at the bottom of the stairs, hands by his sides.

“That was really brilliant, mate,” he says genuinely, voice a quiet rasp of awe. He pushes down the fear that suddenly manifests in his throat. If this is his competition, he’s going to have to be absolutely perfect. “What’s your name?”

“N-Niall Horan,” Niall stutters still a bit taken aback with shock.

“Nice to meet you. Harry Styles.”

Harry offers a hand and Niall takes it, palm sweaty.

“Styles as in Des Styles?”

Harry snorts but nods at the mention of his father’s name. For a moment he’d thought he’d get to escape it with this strangely dressed boy, a far cry from the usual uptight types in their khaki trousers and smart jumpers.

“Wicked,” is all Niall says with a wide grin. He doesn’t press for any other information, doesn’t ask the usual questions – _what’s it like being Des Styles’ son, why the hell didn’t you compete this season?_

“So, Mezappa?” Harry asks slowly after an odd moment of silence.

Niall nods, entire face lighting up and Harry very nearly needs to take a step back. He can feel the pleasure rolling off of Niall in waves, the sheer joy to be playing a piece he loves. And he’s beautiful.

“It’s me favourite,” Niall tells him shyly, and _no shit,_ Harry thinks. “Was so excited to see we had to play a virtuoso ètude.”

“Well, they’re pretty standard competition fare.”

The tips of Niall’s ears turn pink before the flush spreads to his cheeks as he looks down at his hands.

“This is my first major competition,” he admits.

Harry stares, dumbfounded. There’s no way someone as talented as Niall hasn’t competed in one of the many competitions for young pianists. Then again, if he had, Harry would have recognised his name from the competitive piano gossip circle.

“What do you mean your _first major competition_?”

Niall merely shrugs one shoulder, looking up again. He looks almost ashamed and Harry doesn’t know what to think of it, because if there are many things Niall should feel, not one of them is _ashamed_.

“I’ve done some stuff around Dublin, but never anything as big as this,” he explains.

“Oh,” is all Harry can muster and then Niall is gathering up his things to vacate the room so Harry can practise.

“See you around,” he says quickly and a moment later the door is banging shut behind him.

Harry stares at the place where he’d been, the air shimmering under the lights. Then he sighs and gets to work.

\--

_Harry is nine when he competes for the first time. He’s been playing the piano for six years by then and some of his peers have been competing just as long, but Des has put off entering him in anything. He wants him to develop a voice of his own, let him decide if this is what he wants to do before pushing him into it. So when Harry asks with pleading eyes and lower lip pushed out in a pout, Des enters him into a competition for young musicians of all types put on by the BBC Philharmonic._

_Harry thinks it’s the best thing ever, bouncing around the holding room in his tiny tuxedo, too excited to be nervous. Des looks on, ignoring the questioning looks from the other parents and other instructors who are trying to keep their own contestants from freaking out too badly._

_Harry wins the whole thing, not only his age category and skill level, but has the highest score in the competition._

_And he loves every single second._

\--

By the time Harry finishes the thirty minute session he’s run through his programme from start to finish with no breaks and it feels really, really good to have it fully down. The piano responds to even the slightest touch, rich sounds filling the space and wrapping him up like a warm blanket. He smiles to himself despite the nervousness that has taken up residence in his chest.

It’s just past nine and he has twenty minutes to get to the Italian restaurant where he’s meeting his father for dinner. The competition is closed, so his father asked to take him to dinner for good luck, and Harry had said he’d love to despite his hesitations. He knows it will most likely be a bit tense and he doesn’t owe his father anything, but. He couldn’t bring himself to say no.

Harry stops off at the hotel to change out of his torn skinny jeans and oversized black t-shirt into something more appropriate. Des is already at the restaurant sipping a glass of wine when Harry arrives at the restaurant a few minutes late. He says nothing of it, standing to embrace his son before Harry removes his coat and they settle in to eat.

Dinner is as awkward as Harry had expected it to be, with nothing but small talk about how Harry’s doing in school, his final selections for the Haversham, even the weather. When it’s over he can’t wait to get back to the hotel to zone out with a film on his laptop.

He toes off his boots as soon as he’s inside the door and after tossing his coat over the chair in the corner, is undoing the last button of his shirt when there’s a knock on the door.

To his surprise, Niall is on the other side, hands shoved into the pockets of his grey joggers and looking like he’s making a mistake by turning up at a bit past eleven.

“Hey, Niall, what’s up?”

“What’re you doing tonight?” Niall asks in a rush before he can stop himself. “I’m too nervous about tomorrow to kind of hang out on my own. But I should go.” He blushes again, this time a deep red that makes Harry want to pull him inside and kiss the tip of his nose and tell him to relax.

He turns to leave, but Harry takes a step back and opens the door wider to make room for him. It’s the night before the Haversham, he should be going to bed early, getting into the proper headspace to compete.

“Bout to put on a film. Care to join?”

Niall nods eagerly with a sheepish smile and steps into the room, Harry closing the door behind him.

Harry gestures to the bed where his laptop is on top of the duvet and gathers up a pair of soft joggers from his suitcase and his t-shirt from earlier.

“Make yourself at home,” he says as he slips into the bathroom to change and brush his teeth.  

When he exits the bathroom a few minutes later, he finds Niall sprawled across one side of the bed, supras abandoned on the floor.

“What’re we watching?” Niall asks curiously, sitting up a bit against the pillows behind him.

Harry slides onto the bed and pulls his laptop onto his thighs to open the lid and turn it on.

“Shine.”

Niall’s eyebrows shoot up but a moment later he’s cackling, doubled over and clutching his stomach.

Harry stares at him in confusion.

“What?”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea, mate? With the whole going mad after winning a competition thing?” Niall says and wipes a few errant tears from the corner of his eyes.

“But it has a happy ending!” Harry argues as he pulls up the films folder on the computer.

“Because the first hour and a half of the film were such a ray of sunshine,” Niall scoffs and rolls his eyes.

“Do you have a better idea then?”

Niall holds his hands out for the laptop and Harry obliges, passing it over without further argument. He watches Niall’s face as the other boy flips through the film options with his bottom lip between his teeth.

“Aha. Here we go.”

Niall clicks on a file and queues the film, then pushes the laptop onto the mattress between them.

Harry leans back into the pile of pillows as the film starts, surprised to see the opening credits of _Finding Nemo._

“Really?”

Niall shushes him and waves a hand in his general direction keeping his eyes locked on the screen. The shushing doesn’t last long and soon they’re talking quietly as the film plays.

“Why haven’t you competed before?” Harry asks, eyes leaving the screen to look at Niall in the dim light of the room.

Niall swallows and keeps his own gaze trained on the film.

“Me parents couldn’t afford the expenses,” he admits quietly. “They could barely afford lessons, which had to stop when they got divorced. So I’ve kept teaching myself on a beat up old upright at school.”

“So you’re here because you need to win,” Harry says, head spinning and feels Niall’s affirmative nod. The way he’d been playing this evening, not once had it ever crossed Harry’s mind that Niall was self-taught. There was natural talent that should be shaped under the careful guidance of an experienced teacher, but Niall was another league entirely.

And Harry. Harry is good, knows he’s been incredible at times, but he doesn’t _need_ to win. His surname alone could get him into any school he wanted, and his family would be more than able to pay the tuition. He just wants to win because his father did, wants to prove he’s just as good. He’s never really thought about it this way before. He’s always known the Haversham was a scholarship competition, but it’d never really crossed his mind that someone would need to win it in order to do something they loved.

“If you win, where do you want to go?”

“Juilliard,” Niall says with no hesitation. “I want to study under Emanuel Ax. You?”

“King’s, because my father went there. Or maybe Oxford,” Harry admits. He’s never said it out loud before, that he’s even entertained the thought of going to a school that wasn’t King’s, not even to his mum. It feels nice.

“You could go anywhere you wanted,” Niall says, but it isn’t with the bitterness of jealousy. It’s with the confidence of a friend, and Harry merely nods, his heart fluttering.

It isn’t long before Niall dozes off, head dropping onto Harry’s shoulder. They’ve only made it to the part with the sharks, but Harry feels himself on the verge of sleep as well. He pauses the film and closes the laptop before reaching over to set it on the nightstand, careful not to disturb Niall. He wiggles down so he’s horizontal, gently tugging the other boy down with him and rearranging the duvet around them. Niall buries his face into the duvet, forehead resting against Harry’s shoulder as he snuffles in his sleep.

\--

Harry wakes to an empty bed and several texts on his phone from Niall.

\- _sorry for falling asleep on you last night, but thanks. if I don’t see you before, good luck today._

_\- ps hope you don’t mind I snagged your number. I probably should have asked first._

_\- sorry that I’m not sorry though._

Harry chuckles to himself and texts him back.

- _I don’t mind. good luck to you as well. x_

He texts his mum to let her know he’s awake and he’ll text her again right before he’s due to play, then drags himself out of bed and into the shower. He feels nauseated from nerves like he always does on the morning of a competition or performance, and it takes all his mind power to keep himself from vomiting as he washes his hair. The hot steam doesn’t help, so he cuts the water to cold for a few seconds to shock his body before he turns the shower off. It helps, if only a little, and he doesn’t feel quite so queasy as he gets dressed and then arranges his curls beneath a scarf.  He’ll change into his tuxedo at the university before his noon slot. He takes the garment bag with him, fighting with it in the wind on the walk to the campus. Finally he clamps it down over one arm and lets it flutter, praying his shirt and trousers don’t get wrinkled.

The main entry of the South West Block is absolute madness when he arrives at quarter til nine, competitors checking in with their music selections, some dressed to perform already and others in jeans and hoodies as they chat with their instructors and parents. There are a few, like Harry, who have come alone, his mother having to work and his father keeping a low profile as to not create an uproar. He picks them out easily, the way they’re slouched against the wall nervously watching everyone else or standing in small groups of support. He spots Niall near the table that’s set up with a spread of pastries and coffee and juices for breakfast, eating a powdered sugar donut and trying not to get dust on his tuxedo. How he can eat at a time like this, Harry will never know.

Harry checks in quickly, signs his form and takes his number before finding his way down to the basement practice rooms. He’d signed up for an hour long practice session and promptly sets to work, running through his programme three times before the person with the next slot is banging on the door for him to hurry up. With hours before some of their performances, some of the competitors have gathered in the small common area again, and Harry ignores the boys and girl from yesterday to go back upstairs and wait outside the lecture hall.

With forty competitors at this stage, someone performs every half an hour beginning at nine on Saturday and Sunday both, and he’s lucky he’s drawn one of the early slots on the first day. He won’t have time for his fear to get the best of him, and he’s heard stories of several pianists with late day two slots losing their nerve just before they were due to play and failing miserably.

But some don’t need until the second day to lose their nerve, it seems. Within a few minutes of sitting down and listening to whoever is performing, Harry suddenly hears the piano stutter and then cut off entirely. A few moments later, the doors swing open and a girl comes out, visibly shaking with sobs as she tries to hide her face. Her instructor who had been waiting in the hall, steps forward quickly to wrap an arm around her shoulders and usher her away, murmuring soothing words.

Harry suddenly wishes Louis was here and texts him as much.

Louis responds with a ‘ _you’re going to smash it hazza xxxx’_ and a jumble of random emoji.

\--

At noon, Harry’s number is called by the runner and he makes his way into the lecture hall though a side door, wiping his sweaty palms on his trousers as he goes.  

The piano looms ahead in the centre of the room, the judges off to the left behind a partition with copies of his music and score sheets. He takes a seat on the bench and stretches fingers along the base of the keyboard, muscles burning as he waits for the judges to get settled.

“Number seven, you may begin.”

\--

_The first competition Harry competes in after his father leaves is a disaster. It’s the annual BBC Philharmonic competition again, so he knows what to expect. But._

_Six months on, he’s not the pianist he used to be. Everything he plays sounds stilted and forced, and he knows how incredibly disappointed Des would have been had he heard him play._

_Harry still takes third in his division and decides the next competition he plays will be the Haversham, no matter what._

\--

The next twenty minutes are a marathon run from one end of the piano to the other, over and over with only a fifteen second pause between each piece.

Harry plays well, but he doesn’t _feel_ it. He’s disconnected from the music, unfocused as his hands move on autopilot across the keys. Technically, he’s near perfect, but there’s no emotion, as if he physically cannot pull it out of himself. Which, he was expecting. It’s been the norm for the past few years, but even so he can’t help but feel a bit disappointed in himself. His head hurts.

“Thank you, number seven.”

\--

Niall pops into view as soon as Harry exits the hall, dressed in faded jeans and an oversized navy jumper that makes his eyes look impossibly more blue.

“That was great!” he says excitedly, pulling Harry into a hug before Harry can react. “I didn’t know you were doing La Campanella!”

Harry wraps his arms around Niall’s waist and leans into the embrace, his body relaxing for what feels like the first time in weeks. Niall hums happily in his shoulder and Harry chuckles lowly.

“Thanks, mate, but it wasn’t my best. How’d you do? You went earlier, right?”

Niall pulls back scoffing.

“You did well,” he insists. “I went first.”

Harry lets at a low whistle and they fall into step beside each other as they exit the building.

“How’d you do?”

Niall lifts one shoulder in a shrug, pulling on a cream pea coat against the weather.

“Well, I think. Was really nervous, so we’ll see,” he replies and Harry is all too familiar with the edge in his voice.

“If you played like you did yesterday, you’ll get through,” Harry assures him.

He then pauses, looking around at the people passing them on the pavement.

“Wait, where are we going?”

“It’s 12:30 on a Saturday, we’ve performed, and I dunno about you, but my train doesn’t leave til noon tomorrow.”

Niall says it in confidence, but Harry notes the reservation in his eyes, like he expects him to say no.

But Harry grins, body already lightening.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're liking this, please let me know. If you're _not_ liking this, please let me know. x
> 
>  
> 
> [La Campanella](http://youtu.be/hEnfZjqMSy0)  
> [Mezeppa](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SfN7xf6JymQ%22)


End file.
